


and when we find ourselves in the place just right

by badritual



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Drabble, Gen, Henry David Bore-eau, Mention of Death In Childbirth, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Post-Movie: Little Women (2019), Silly, Things Get A Little Metafictional, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: “I wish you might put mine and Laurie’s love story in one of your books.”
Relationships: Amy March & Josephine March, Theodore Laurence/Amy March (mentioned), mention of a fictionalized version of Louisa May Alcott/Henry David Thoreau, mention of a fictionalized version of Louisa May Alcott/Ladislas "Laddie" Wisniewski
Kudos: 45





	and when we find ourselves in the place just right

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of silly. Please just go with it, lol. It's also an AU basically.
> 
> I decided to play with the notion that Bhaer was inspired by Louisa's childhood mentor/acquaintance Henry David Thoreau. 
> 
> This could be any version of Jo and Amy, but I wrote it with Saoirse and Florence in mind.
> 
> Title from a Shaker hymn.

“I wish you might put mine and Laurie’s love story in one of your books.” Amy flops bonelessly across the couch, propping her tiny, dainty, stockinged feet in Jo’s lap. “But I don’t suppose they’d find it realistic.”

Jo looks up, frowning at the intrusion, and manages to move her notepad out of the way before it can be upended by Amy’s heels. “They? Who is this ‘they’ you speak of?” Jo asks, using Amy’s well-formed ankles as a resting spot for her pad of paper.

“Your readers, of course,” Amy sighs, twirling a golden ringlet round and round one of her fingers. “I’m certain they all wish for Laddie to end up with Louisa. They get on so well and he’s always scribbling romantic lines in the margins of all her books.”

“Louisa finds Laddie’s habit of writing in all her books rather loathsome,” Jo says, a little pointedly, as she resumes sketching out a scene for her story. “Books aren’t meant for scribbling in. Soppy romantic verse notwithstanding.” 

Amy sits up, knocking Jo’s notepad aside yet again. “Josephine March,” she scolds. “Even _I_ wanted Laddie and Louisa together. He was always so sweet on her. And yet she only had eyes for that stodgy old professor. What was his name again? Bore-eau?”

“ _Thoreau_.” Jo sighs and rubs her thumb between her eyebrows, though that does nothing to quell the ache forming there. 

“He’s not even remotely attractive with his stout belly and bushy beard,” Amy pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. “And he’s so much older than her!”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Jo says, giving Amy a consoling pat on the arm. 

“Balderdash,” Amy says, but she settles back down on the couch next to Jo. “If I’d grown up with Laddie by my side, I certainly wouldn’t have had eyes for any eccentric professors.”

Jo laughs and gives Amy’s hand a squeeze, running her fingernail along the edge of the thin wedding band she wears. “But you did, you silly goose. _And_ you married him.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Amy says, turning her hand to grasp Jo’s. She presses her cheek against Jo’s shoulder and scrutinizes the words scrawled onto the pad of paper in Jo’s unevenly slanted hand. “I don’t like that May dies of childbed fever.”

“Don’t worry, my darling,” Jo says, planting a soft kiss atop Amy’s head of blond curls. “It is only fiction.”

Amy sighs and rests a hand over her middle. “Perhaps I am a little too attached to May, since I see so much of myself in her,” she admits, cradling her belly. “And I suppose May’s plight makes me a bit nervous about my own.”

“If you want, I can rewrite the ending for you,” Jo says, lifting her pencil, seemingly prepared to scribble out the last few lines of her manuscript.

“Don’t.” Amy lays her hand over Jo’s, stilling it. “I’m not a writer, Jo. I haven’t got the talent for it. Nor the patience. But _you_ do. I trust that May is in good hands.”

Jo smiles and gives Amy a peck on the forehead. “I will do both my beloved May _and_ my darling Amy proud.”


End file.
